


emotional sexual bender

by pumpkinless



Series: make me feel [2]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Fraternity, Anal Fingering, Dirty Talk, Explicit Sexual Content, Frat Boy Shiro (Voltron), Hand Jobs, Keith Gets It and More, Keith just wants to get it, M/M, Rimming, Size Kink, Spanking, thirst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-13
Updated: 2018-06-29
Packaged: 2019-05-21 16:51:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14919215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pumpkinless/pseuds/pumpkinless
Summary: Keith turns up for a booty call. Shiro feeds him stir fry instead.





	1. Chapter 1

_ u have a minute? _

Keith stares down at the text. He hasn't been ignoring it for the last half hour, at least not on purpose. It's just that every time he turns his phone on, it's right there, taunting him, and he has about a million questions about what exactly it's supposed to mean. And no idea what to do.

“Look, I know I invited you over, but I'll kick you out if you don't quit sighing,” Pidge says, interrupting his thoughts.

“I'm not sighing,” Keith says to be contrary. He sighs for emphasis.

“What are you even looking at?”

Keith turns off his screen again and throws his phone on the bed beside him. “He texted me.”

“So?” Pidge looks at him askance, and her eyes snap back to the television when an enemy starts shooting. “I thought you two have  _ been  _ texting.”

“He asked me if I have a minute.” Keith waits for a reaction, but none is forthcoming. “I mean, what do I even say to that?”

“Tell him yes, I'd imagine,” Pidge says dryly.

“But what does he  _ want _ ? It sounds so . . . serious.” Keith drops his head back against the wall and sighs, because there's never quite enough sighing in the world. He's supposed to be doing homework right now; his calculus textbook is in his lap and everything, and his focus was working great amicably sitting next to Pidge and their muttered cussing at the Xbox, up until his phone lit up with Shiro's name. 

Pidge shrugs. “It’s Friday. He probably wants to hook up again.”

That's likely true. Picking his phone back up, Keith stares at the message on his lock screen and gnaws on his bottom lip. Right. They've  _ been _ texting—they’ve even been texting in a decidedly non G-rated way, and Shiro has made a couple of allusions to them meeting up and carrying out their dirty messages in person, allusions that Keith is not at all averse to. This is just a booty call. He needs to stop overthinking it and get to the part of his day where he gets dicked down.

Keith unlocks his phone and opens his texts, staring at Shiro's name sitting right at the top and bolded. 

His fingers type slowly:  _ yeah what's up _

It doesn't even take thirty seconds before Keith's phone lights up and buzzes with an incoming call.

“Holy shit,” Pidge says, “he was really waiting for that. Thirsty.”

“Shut up,” Keith mutters half-heartedly. He feels a little bad now that Shiro was so eager to hear back and Keith wasted his time hemming and hawing over a three-word text. “Hello?”

“Hey.” The way Keith's stomach flip flops around at his voice is ridiculous. “Whatcha up to?”

“Just doing some homework,” Keith says. The game pauses, and Pidge's gaze burns into the side of his face.

“On a Friday?’ Shiro laughs good-naturedly.

“I like calculus,” Keith says in his defense, but now he just sounds like a complete nerd, which is not what he’s going for. “Well—what are you doing?”

“I'm over here actually enjoying my Friday afternoon,” Shiro says, teasing. “Having a beer in the yard with the guys, waiting for some cute guy to quit doing his homework and text me back.”

Faking offense, Keith says, “If you're just calling to make fun of me, I’ll let you get back to your day drinking.”

“No!” Shiro's voice is a little too vehement, and Keith freezes in confusion. He really wishes Pidge would stop staring at the side of his head. “I mean, uh.” Shiro laughs awkwardly. “I had a question for you. The real reason I called.”

Mustering every scrap of courage he owns, Keith says coolly, as if he does this all the time with boys who have even more abs than Shiro, “You want me to come over tonight?”

“Yes!” Shiro says. “Wait, no—not like that.” Keith frowns and locks eyes with Pidge. Their eyes are wide as they strain their ears to hear Shiro’s side of the conversation. “What I mean is, would you like to come over for dinner tonight? Just you and me.”

What?

“What,” Keith says before he can get a handle on his brain to mouth filter.

“I just thought, um, maybe I could cook you dinner? And we could watch a movie or something afterwards. Whatever you want.”

“Shiro, I—you can  _ cook _ ?” Pidge's head tilts in confusion. Keith doesn't mean to sound so completely incredulous, but this is not what he expected.

“Yes.” Shiro sounds hopeful. “I'm not amazing or anything, but I'm pretty decent. My brothers all said they'll be out of the house, so it'll just be you and me. We can have a couple of drinks, and, uh, you know, just chill.”

“You want to chill,” Keith says, barely suppressing his surprised laughter. This is  _ surreal _ , but . . . Keith is a broke college student who likes the thought of not eating in the cafeteria tonight. If Shiro really wants to feed him before they fuck, well—there are weirder kinks out there.

Shiro’s embarrassment comes through loud and clear over the phone, but he bravely soldiers onward. “Yeah. Like I said, maybe a movie if you wanted. Or, y’know.” He trails off uncertainly.

“What was that last thing?”

“Nothing.”

Biting his lip to keep the smirk off his face, Keith ducks his head and finally turns away from Pidge, who makes a face at him for leaving and not giving them more fodder for gossip. Whatever, he knows they're not going to want to hear this. He steps outside into the hall of the dorm for some privacy, since there’s usually no one around this time of day. “I'm alone. Tell me.”

Shiro hesitates until he finally says quietly, “I’ve been thinking about that thing you said to me last time we, um, last time we hung out.”

“What thing was that, exactly?”

“Ah,” Shiro says. “I don’t think I should say right now.”

The cry comes through loud and clear in Matt’s voice:  _ You should definitely say it, what the fuck, man, tell me! _

“Maybe,” Keith hedges, even though he already knows he wants that. “We could do that if you ask me nicely. Cook me a nice dinner and keep me happy.” He likes that Shiro puts him in charge like this sometimes—his texts have shown Keith that Shiro is equal opportunity for anything with a libido that might actually match Keith's own.

“I can do that,” Shiro says, a little breathless. “Is that a yes then?”

Keith has only known this man for a week. He’s never left his number for anyone before the morning after, but after cleaning up a little bit from the first round of sex, Shiro procured them a bottle of vodka, a  _ nice  _ one, and got them both drunk for real in his bedroom, laughing into each other's mouths and finally rutting against each other until they passed out. It’s easily the most pleasant hookup Keith has ever had.

When Keith woke up in that frat house still more drunk than hungover and got an eyeful of Shiro’s abs, perfectly cut hipbones, and the size of his dick, there was no way he wasn’t going to at least try to get some of that again. 

Plus, Keith can’t remember a boy ever  _ calling _ him before. It feels nice.

“It’s a yes,” Keith says, huffing out a laugh.

“Great! Cool. Is seven good?”

“Sounds like a plan.” Smiling to himself, Keith turns and starts to open Pidge’s door.

“Cool. I mean—yes, it is. Great. Sorry, I’ve said that like five times,” Shiro says, flustered. “I’ll, um, I’ll talk to you later?”

“You got it. Bye, Shiro.”

“Bye, Keith.”

Keith closes the door and leans against it with a sigh. Pausing the game again, Pidge swivels her head around like a creepy owl to pin him with an all-too-knowing look. “You never told me what it is you did to get Shiro to call you back the next day,” she says. Keith knows she was there that night, but he’s not sure what exactly her role was in any of Keith’s decisions. His memories are a touch hazy.

“Nothing on purpose,” Keith says. He heaves himself up onto the bed and kicks back, nudging at Pidge to start her game back up. Keith sucks at video games, but he loves to watch Pidge swear at the screen while playing.

“Well, the way my brother tells it, Shiro’s got people hitting on him left and right, but he’s not exactly putting himself out there on the market,” Pidge says. On screen, an alien head explodes in technicolor blood when an arrow strikes it. What the hell is this game? “Matt says he hasn’t been on a date in like a year.”

“I don't think I really did anything,” Keith admits. He mostly remembers the sex, and how good it was, and how filthy Shiro's mouth was as it whispered and moaned into his ear as he fucked Keith, too frantic but so, so good. He only vaguely remembers how they met and started talking, already bowled over by Pidge’s over the top bartending skills and the desire clouding his judgement. “It’s just—the sex was good. We’re not dating, or anything, it’s just a hookup.”

“You should try dating him,” Pidge says, and her character promptly dies. “Ugh. Lock that down, I mean. Shiro’s a good guy.”

_ And so hot _ , Keith adds in his head, because that’s sort of the driving factor here. He shrugs a little and pulls his calculus book back into his lap. “I’ve never dated anyone, so probably not. He’s fine, but I don’t have time, you know?”

“Wait, really?” Pidge asks, surprised. “Weren't you with that one guy, though, what was his name, like—”

“We never dated,” Keith says dryly. “I don't think I ever saw him in a room that didn't have a bed in it.”

Pidge laughs. “Fair. You're not nervous about tonight, then?”

“It’s not that serious.” Keith shakes his head. “Probably he’s gonna order pizza and we’ll watch half a movie before he tries to get into my pants. I don’t think it’s a big deal.”

***

It’s not a big deal, but it is weirdly legit, Keith realizes as soon as Shiro opens the door, shoulders nearly as wide as the doorframe and already sending Keith’s head spinning. His face splits into a wide grin as he pulls Keith inside by the hands and presses a too-sweet kiss to Keith’s cheek like some kind of gentleman, which is not exactly the greeting he was hoping for. 

“Hi,” Keith says breathlessly, caught off guard. “You look really nice.” The deep purple of Shiro’s button down catches Keith's eye and his gaze slides down the strip of skin exposed by the open buttons below the collar. He remembers a meme Pidge showed him once, a dumb tweet about men with bodies shaped like Doritos, and Shiro is exactly that. Something to do with shoulder to waist ratios—Keith doesn’t know about all of that, but he knows a body he wants to climb like a tree when he sees one.

“You do too,” Shiro says, a soft blush staining his cheeks. 

Keith starts to wonder if maybe he should have worn something nicer than his tightest T-shirt and jeans, the ones with the holes at the knees that didn’t come pre-torn at the store. Shiro doesn’t look disappointed in his clothing choices, though, even as he asks to take Keith’s coat—the same shitty, beat up leather jacket he always wears—and hang it in the sparsely populated hall closet, as if this is a functional household instead of a sketchy frat house. 

“I hope you like stir fry,” Shiro says. “I didn’t ask, but if you don’t like any of the vegetables I bought, or you think it’s weird, I mean—”

“Stir fry sounds great,” Keith says, a grin breaking across his face as he rocks up onto his tiptoes. He doesn’t let on that he can’t remember the last time he had a home cooked meal, since everything he consumes comes from a microwave or the cafeteria. “Can’t I get a real kiss first before you try to impress me with your cooking skills?”

“Before dinner?” Shiro says, mouth quirking up at the corner even as he leans closer to Keith.

“What would the neighbors say, I know,” Keith says, but he’s not following the conversation anymore—eyes fixed on Shiro’s lips, he tilts his head up again, suggestive, to let Shiro know he means business. 

With a huff of breath, Shiro finally agrees to lean down, and with his mouth on Keith’s and his hands both resting gently on the small of Keith’s back, this could be heaven right here. The kiss isn’t deep or needy, but explorative and honest, like he’s taking the time to relearn Keith’s mouth since the last time they’ve done this. Keith’s hands land on Shiro’s upper arms and he has to use all his self-control to keep himself from feeling them up; they’re just so thick and  _ strong _ . Shiro could do whatever he likes to Keith using those.

Sober now, it feels a little bit like the first time for Keith in the best possible way. It makes him want Shiro even more, to recover what they found in each other the last time Keith was here and make it burn even brighter.

“Is that what you wanted?” Shiro breathes when the kiss parts.

Keith nods his head, hypnotized, and he leans back in for another because he’s  _ addicted _ to Shiro’s mouth. They’re not even going to make it to the part of the night where Shiro has to put some shitty moves on him—Keith is ready to just say fuck it all right here right now and haul Shiro down to the entryway  _ floor _ .

He tries to make it known. He sighs against Shiro's lips and plasters himself against his chest. None of these things are hardships, and neither is skimming his hands around the hem of Shiro's shirt suggestively, fingers just brushing skin. Shiro reciprocates easily, touching Keith's back underneath his shirt and generally doing everything in his power to make Keith feel like he's on top of the world right here, worshipped by a man twice his size whose hard cock he can feel through his pants.

Bold, Keith slips his middle fingers into Shiro's belt loops and tugs at his hips, taking one step back in the direction of the stairs. He misses the feeling of Shiro's chest against his, sure, but it's worth it for the muffled groan Shiro levies into their kiss. 

Their lips part and Keith's eyes slide open to find Shiro watching him, intent but strangely soft, for the moment.

“You're trying to distract me,” Shiro accuses. The corner of his mouth twitches. “I promised you dinner, and I'm sure you're hungry.”

“You really don’t need to feed me,” Keith says, stealing another kiss. “I’m already a sure thing.”

“What if I want to, though?”

That catches Keith off guard a tad, but he recovers enough to follow Shiro into the kitchen without complaint. Probably Shiro is just hungry and wanting to have the dinner he already started prepping, but he can’t lie and say he isn’t a little disappointed. Let the spinach wilt—Keith aches with need, and Shiro should pay attention to him instead.

“You don’t have to, you know,” Keith repeats as he watches Shiro take up a spot in front of a cutting board surrounded by already chopped vegetables and a pile of raw chicken.

“I promised.” Shiro flashes him a smile, and Keith leans up against the sink next to him. “Anything here you could live without?”

Keith surveys the spread of vegetables, and weighs the odds of him offending Shiro if he explains his deep hatred of broccoli. “Uh.” Keith gestures at the pile, enough to fill up a space the size of two of Shiro’s fists—literally the worst vegetable and the best image.

“Right.” Shiro dumps the broccoli into a tupperware to put in the refrigerator, and then pokes at the electric stove until the glass top burner flares a dull red. “So,” Shiro says, turning and grinning at Keith while the pan heats up. “Tell me about yourself.”

“Uh, well. I’m studying aerospace engineering with a minor in aviation, and I—what?” Shiro’s eyes have gotten all big.

“I can’t believe I’ve never seen you around before!” he says. “I’m in the flight program, third year.”

“Oh,” Keith says, a bit stupidly.

“You’re a first year, aren’t you? How do you like the program so far?”

“It’s good, I mean, it’s not like I’ve gotten to fly yet, most just doing the pre-reqs so far, but, um.” Keith shrugs. He doesn’t really know what to say to Shiro, didn’t come here expecting small talk—or, actually, he wasn’t expecting anything even remotely resembling conversation. He thought they’d be naked and sweating with a pizza on the way by now.

“You’ll love it when you do,” Shiro says. He dumps the pile of raw chicken into the pot and watches it sizzle. “I’ve been flying my whole life. My grandpa was a pilot, and he used to take me up and let me steer once we got in the air. I always knew that’s what I wanted to do.”

While Shiro proceeds to whip up the most delicious-looking plate of food Keith has seen in a long time, Keith manages to tank their conversation about five times. He should have done shots before coming over here, both to calm his nerves that apparently only want to rise when actual conversation is happening, and to tell his dick that Shiro cooking in a fairly gross kitchen is nothing to write home about. Shiro’s shirt pulls tight across his shoulders as he scoops white rice out of the rice cooker and tops it with steaming vegetables and chicken. The sauce came out of a jar, but Shiro had offered it to Keith to taste and it’s damn good, far tastier than anything Keith expects either of them could make themselves. All in all, it’s impressive and  _ nice _ . 

This whole thing feels less and less like a booty call the more Shiro tries to get to know him. Keith doesn’t know what to make of that.

“Thank you for dinner,” Keith says once the plates are scraped clean and loaded into the dishwasher. “It was really good.”

“Ah, thanks,” Shiro says, rubbing the back of his neck. Red blooms over his cheeks and nose, and that’s when Keith decides that he just can’t put up with this ridiculousness anymore. Shiro has hardly touched him since they left the front door.

Keith crosses the kitchen to plant his hands on Shiro’s hips and kiss the bottom of his jaw. By this point, Keith is sufficiently convinced that Shiro is a good person worth sleeping with, or whatever game Shiro is going for here, and he would really like to get to the part where they start losing articles of clothing. 

“What’re you up to?” Shiro gasps, head tipping back as if not of his own volition, baring more skin that Keith just wants to stake a claim on. He nips, not so hard that Shiro’s throat would bruise, but enough to quell the fire inside. This time around, Keith has a better handle on himself, courtesy of sobriety, so he’s not quite at the point where he can’t keep his hands or eyes off every part of Shiro’s body that makes him drool, but it’s a near thing. 

Nose pressed into the side of Shiro’s throat, Keith says, “Nothing.”

“You wanna put on a movie?”

Keith kisses his neck. “I had another idea.” Shiro’s hands clench, hovering just at Keith’s waist.

“I don’t want you to think—” Shiro starts, and Keith sucks at his pulse point to silence him. Blood starts to pound in his ears as his whole body heats up, getting too excited already by far.

“Don’t want me to think what?” Keith murmurs.

“That, um— _ ah _ —”

Is Keith seducing Shiro right now? And it’s working, apparently, from the way Shiro’s hands clench at his hips and flex. Keith can’t see his face, but his breathing gets heavier when Keith sighs into his neck and drags his bottom lip teasingly along Shiro’s throat. “You’ve already convinced me you’re very nice,” Keith says. “Don’t you wanna take this somewhere a little more fun?”

Shiro’s brain takes so long to come back online that Keith almost thinks he’s going to say no and gets ready to retract the offer and then flee the frat house. 

“S-sure,” Shiro says. His hands slaps at the wall next to him until the light turns off. 

In the sudden dark washed over with just the faint glow from the hallway, Shiro’s cheekbones and jaw stand out in sharp relief. Keith reattaches his mouth to his favorite spot on Shiro’s neck, unable to rein himself in. Shiro hisses and clamps one hand over the nape of Keith’s neck, holding him in place.

“You have been driving me crazy all  _ week _ ,” Shiro pants. The corner of Keith’s mouth twitches upward. “Your—your fucking  _ filthy _ texting, I’ve never—”

Now this is what Keith came here for.

He slips one hand up the front of Shiro’s shirt for real this time, a teasing touch upward and then a scrape of his nails back down, listening for the little sigh that falls from Shiro’s lips. This is what Keith missed in all the texting—the real, tangible touch and sound of another body pressed up against his. Shiro’s hands are still shockingly big, but so gentle, and on Keith’s body, rucking up his shirt and pressing into his spine, they feel like the best, hottest thing in the world.

“Tell me what you want me to do to you,” Keith whispers. The dark turns everything intimate, more than the stilted conversation over dinner and more than the press of them together. 

“Who says you’re going anything to m—god, _ fuck _ , do that again.”

Keith thumbs open the button of Shiro’s jeans one-handed and slips his hand inside, fitting his hand to the hot, hard length of Shiro. His head spins. He can’t believe all of that’s been inside him.

He touches Shiro slowly, savoring the hitch of his breath under Keith’s hands. Silence reigns until Keith nudges his fingers underneath the waistband of Shiro’s underwear and meets hot, smooth flesh, heel of his palm pressed to the coarse line of hair leading down and teasing Keith.

“Wait,” Shiro gasps. “We should go upstairs.”

“I thought you said everyone was out,” Keith whispers. Shiro’s hips twitch as he finally wraps his fingers all the way around.

“They—they are,” Shiro says, head dropping forward and sighing hard through his nose. “There’s a—we have a rule. No fucking outside of bedrooms.”

Languid, Keith’s hand traces a gentle path up and down the length of Shiro’s cock. “Please,” he says, remembers that Shiro likes that word. He nips the skin of Shiro’s neck again. “Nobody’s gonna know but you. Just you remembering this every time you come in here, how I got you off so fast.”

Shiro groans and wraps one arm tight around Keith’s waist, the other hand gripping the counter behind him. “We shouldn’t—”

“Just this,” Keith says. He squeezes his hand. “This is a thank you for dinner.”

“Then what’s everything else?”

Keith gives into the need and bites at Shiro’s neck, low, unforgiving, definitely leaving a mark this time. “I’m sure you’ll be happy to find out.”

They kiss until Shiro has to part on a gasp, overwhelmed by the way Keith touches him. Foreheads leaned together, Keith smiles as Shiro closes his eyes, and he tightens his grip, telling Shiro how good he feels and how much Keith wants to feel him come like this, get Keith’s hand all filthy and clean it up for him. Shiro’s breath comes out in a whine at that.

“You like that,” Keith says, half out of awe. “You’re so fucking hot, I can’t—”

Shiro kisses him again in response like he wants to shut him up, licking desperately into Keith’s mouth and hips twitching into his touch, the prettiest picture of silent begging that Keith has ever seen. He wants to give Shiro whatever he wants, anything he can.

Shiro comes into his hand with a soft groan through clench teeth, shaking all over as Keith pulls him through it, hand sloppy wet and tight. Keith feels proud, and then hungry when he presses his fingers past Shiro’s lips and watches him lick them clean with closed eyes and a lot of care for his teeth and Keith’s fingertips. Their eyes meet while it happens, and Keith imagines that his pupils are as blown wide as Shiro’s right now, hungry for all of it. 

Eventually, Shiro catches his breath, and he meets Keith’s eyes with a dark gaze that sets him on fire. Electricity crackles in the air between them, and the shift is palpable. “Upstairs,” Shiro whispers, hoarse. “Now.”


	2. Chapter 2

Shiro doesn’t bother to kick the door all the way closed behind them, and Keith doesn’t care one tiny bit.

“You better fuck me,” Keith snarls, fingers twisting in Shiro’s hair as best as they can while Shiro uses his teeth to practically maul Keith’s neck.

Shiro is even better at this part than Keith remembers. He has Keith up against the wall, both of Keith’s legs wrapped around Shiro’s waist, holding him up as if it isn’t even an issue. Keith catches a glimpse of Shiro’s bicep—thick and bulging as he hauls Keith up higher—and feels the desire zing through his body as fast as lightning.

“God, you’re so—”

“Tell me,” Shiro says, rucking up Keith’s shirt and nearly breaking Keith’s nose on the collar as he pulls it over Keith’s head. His fingers spread wide over Keith’s abdomen, and he asks again, distracting Keith from the sight of big, tan hands on him.

“I want you to fuck me against the wall,” Keith says. He grabs Shiro’s upper arm and squeezes meaningfully. “I want to see what these can do, want you to give me everything, _fuck_.”

“How do you want it?” Shiro says, rough palm passing over Keith's nipple and making him squirm. Everything is burning.

“I just told you,” Keith hisses. Shiro shushes him with a harsh kiss.

“No, I mean—” He has the audacity to laugh at Keith, a little huff into the crook of his neck that shouldn’t feel as good as it does. “Want me to do you hard? Fast? Slow? I can make you cry, baby, or scream, or whatever you want, just tell me.” Overconfident again, apparently. Keith tangles his fingers in the buttons of Shiro’s shirt and prays he doesn’t rip anything apart.

“Hard,” he says, almost incoherent, the words too difficult to spit out. “Give it to me hard.”

“I can do that.” Shiro rips the last two buttons out in his haste to get his shirt off, which is too bad for the shirt. The color does wonders for his eyes.

Keith loses himself in all that newly bared skin, mouthing possessively at the dark bruise already forming on Shiro’s neck and letting Shiro do all the work to hold Keith up while he touches whatever he can get his hands on. He finds his tongue again somewhere around the time his fingers tangle in the trail of hair leading down past the waistband of his pants.

“Last time,” Keith says, too entranced to look up. Will he ever get enough of this view? Absolutely not. “Last time you promised me you’d make me cry.”

“I did.”

“Well, I didn’t.” Keith’s tongue swipes over his bottom lip—he honestly didn’t believe men like this existed in real life, before he got Shiro naked. The body of a male power fantasy and the personality of a man raised on respect and gentle command, all rolled up into one deliciously large package.

“Is that what you want?” Shiro asks, contemplative. His fingers flex on Keith’s thighs, and Keith has to fight back a sigh.

“If you think you can do it.”

“You’re so—” Shiro breaks off with a frustrated groan, threading a hand through the back of Keith’s hair and wrenching his head up so Shiro can bite his way into Keith’s mouth.

Keith is so turned on he feels dizzy even with his eyes closed, and he just moans and lets Shiro take whatever he wants. The world lurches as Shiro takes a step back from the wall, but he keeps Keith gripped tightly to him, and they stumble over to the bed.

“This—this is _not_ the wall,” Keith says as he lands on the bed with a shock of breath, Shiro standing over him. “Also, I think you’ve used that move before.”

Shiro grins and he looks _so good_ up there. Keith would like to know who the fuck authorized this, authorized him to look like that from all angles, but especially from below. Makes Keith want to beg for a lot more than cock, in filthy words that make him shiver just to think about saying, but he wants it so bad, anyway. This is the first time they’ve left the lights on, the first time Keith has gotten to view Shiro without shadow and darkness obscuring. Keith’s thighs tense just imagining how spread open he would feel with his legs thrown over Shiro’s shoulders.

“I’ll give you what you want,” Shiro says, dropping to his knees on the floor, “but trust me?”

As if there’s nowhere else in the world he would rather be, Shiro’s fingers pluck at the laces of Keith’s boots while Keith gapes down at him. “I—fine,” he answers, not sure what else he could say here. He mourns the view above him. His pants and boots need to come off at some point, sure, but this way involves maybe a little more calf stroking than is really necessary. Keith shakes his foot to hurry it up.

He gets a kiss to his ankle for the trouble.

Keith tries to stay still, to just stare up at the ceiling and let Shiro do—whatever it is he’s doing down there that isn’t letting Keith objectify his body. Maybe it’s a kink for him. Keith doesn’t want to know, but he can respect that.

“You’re quiet,” Shiro teases.

“Maybe I’m bored,” Keith says. He fakes a yawn.

Shiro’s hands leave him. Before Keith can get his head up to look and complain, Shiro grabs him by the hips and hauls him over onto his stomach, dragging him back so his ass and legs hang over the edge of the bed, not quite kneeling as Shiro supports him instead of letting his knees do it. Keith fists his hands in the bedsheets—clean smelling, like fresh out of the laundry clean—as Shiro tugs his jeans down, peeling them painstakingly from his legs. It’s the price he pays to look hot.

He gets his hands on Keith’s ass after pulling down his underwear and throwing them to disappear with the jeans somewhere on the floor. Keith sighs into the contact, arches his back a little and basks in Shiro’s appreciative little hum.

Maybe Keith can’t see how much of his ass Shiro’s hands cover to appreciate it fully, but he can feel it, feel him digging in his thumbs and squeezing. Keith’s ass is nothing special, in his opinion, just about as lean and toned as the rest of him, but Shiro is entranced, fingers brushing over his rim and then down to the crease of his thigh.

“Any day now,” Keith says. He’s still bitter that Shiro’s entire body isn’t on display for him anymore, but he can make this work. Probably.

The first touch of Shiro’s tongue nearly undoes him.

“Fuck,” Keith says, half under his breath and half into the bedspread under his cheek. This is unexpected to say the least.

Shiro’s hands slide to the insides of his thighs and push his legs further apart—the touch alone is too much, but the force behind it is even more. Keith gapes, open-mouthed, like the bed is somehow going to understand what’s going through his mind. Again, Shiro’s tongue touches him, one broad, flat stroke that makes him gasp.

Keith has—

He's never done this before, but it seems like Shiro's tentative strokes are done, and he dives in like a man starving for his last meal.

He forgives Shiro for everything.

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” Keith whispers. This is—it’s really happening, for real. Thank god he showered? Or—his brain shorts out before that thought can finish, because Shiro moans a little, almost too quiet to hear as his tongue works and Keith struggles not to scream. Why does that feel so good—why, when it’s something he’s honestly never thought about, something that he talked hit about but never considered as a real possibility?

He can’t explain what it feels like, just knows it’s the perfect combination of overwhelming and not enough, taunting and overloading him all at once.

Shiro pulls back just enough to tease him, sucking what will surely be a dark bruise into the tender skin of Keith’s inner thigh, one big hand pushing against his knee as if he thinks Keith is going to try to shake him off. It couldn’t be farther from the truth.

Keith’s toes curl when Shiro traces the tip of his tongue around Keith’s rim, and Keith can’t even tell if he likes that or the flat of Shiro’s tongue more. It’s all eye opening in the same sort of way, even the thought of his thighs turning black and blue overnight from Shiro’s mouth and hands, gripping him so tight and holding him right where Shiro wants him. His lips part on a soundless moan, the sound punched away from him before it can meet the air.

“You’re quiet,” Shiro says. Keith wants to grab him by the hair as punishment for stopping, but his fingers are tangled in the top sheet.

“Don’t stop,” he begs, instead of something more cutting.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Shiro is so good, so hot against him, it makes Keith’s legs fall apart until they’re straining. It’s the way one hand curls around Keith’s hipbone to keep him in pace and the other one on his ass, warm metal spreading him open for Shiro’s mouth. Keith stuffs a hand in his mouth because he doesn’t know how to handle this. It’s almost nasty—he can feel the spit sliding down, can’t think too hard about the mechanics of it all—but instead it’s just so, _so_ good, and Keith pushes his ass back, trying to feel more. Shiro laughs a little, pleased, and Keith huffs when all it gets him is Shiro pulling back and rubbing a thumb over his hole.

“Look at you,” Shiro says, a touch dreamy. “Haven’t been able to stop thinking about you all week.”

Keith snarls, “You wouldn’t have to _think_ about me if you just got back to—”

Shiro’s thumb sinks inside, slow, just deep enough to steal the words from Keith’s lips. He loves the feeling too much to keep talking. Keith imagines that Shiro’s eyes are riveted on him, on this most private place, and it sends a shiver through his body, thinking of how hungry he must look, bent over the edge of some frat boy’s bed, practically pulling a muscle just to make room for all the width of Shiro’s shoulders.

“Tell me what you want, baby.”

“I—I _told_ you,” Keith pants. It’s too soon to start crying, but if Keith doesn’t get something more than Shiro’s thumb sitting shallowly inside him within the next five seconds, he’s going to lose it.

Shiro snorts out a little laugh. “Try harder than that.”

“I said I wanted you to fuck me,” Keith says, a touch mean. He can’t help it. “Is that not on the table?”

“You had your turn downstairs,” Shiro says. “I’m in charge now.” His finger inside Keith is distracting, stealing his thoughts as it withdraws and pushes in, feeling deeper, and sends sparks up his spine. “I don’t know if you’ve been good enough, yet.”

“Who said I wanted to be good?” Keith asks, because—seriously? Shiro wants him to be _good_? What the hell.

“I think you do,” Shiro breathes out, lips tickling Keith's thigh.

The drawer to the bedside table opens and shuts, and Keith almost sighs in relief—that sound signals good things to come, but even as Shiro’s finger traces tempting circles around his rim, it’s not enough—that’s as far as it goes, and no amount of Keith nudging his body back changes Shiro’s dogged determination to drag this out.

“Fine,” Keith says through gritted teeth, so turned on that the frustration forces him to give in. “Please, I— _please_ fuck me.”

This time, Shiro’s finger sliding in is slick and easy, all the way until the backs of his knuckles press against the edge of Keith’s hole on either side of his middle finger. Keith wants to sing Shiro’s praises to the heavens, and Shiro murmurs something into his skin, too quiet to parse, but he sounds appreciative.

“Please,” Keith says again, but this time he means it. This time, it’s not a fuck you; it’s plaintive begging, pure and simple, and he’s not too proud to do it again.

Keith wouldn’t beg for just any man.

Shiro opens Keith up with more of that same, devastating skill as he did a week ago, touch gentle and demanding, like he knows exactly what Keith’s body can take and is determined to push it to its very limits. Keith spreads his legs wider and hitches his ass up just a bit, resisting the urge to roll his hips down in the bed for friction. He wants this to last as long as physically possible.

“Fuck, feels good,” Keith slurs when Shiro pushes a third finger inside him, relentless. His fingers are amazingly thick and long, and he’s so good with his hands that Keith’s head will probably never stop spinning.

Shiro bites the back of his thigh, savage, and Keith yells. It raises the stakes like nothing else.

Just like that, the burn in Keith’s body is a wildfire—he’s panting into the bed, hand reaching back to grip Shiro’s forearm because it seems like it should anchor him. It just makes him realize that his fingers are too short to encircle it, that Shiro’s arm is just as thick as the rest of him, viscerally so, and Keith closes his eyes against the invasion of fantasies filthier than anything he’s ever had.

Keith says something in surprise, he doesn’t know what, but Shiro laughs at him and playfully smacks at his ass.

Keith’s moan in response is not so playful.

For just a brief moment, everything pauses. “Holy . . . .” Shiro whispers. He does it again, harder this time, and it makes Keith go tight around his fingers in surprise.

“You better get on with it,” Keith says, a lot more coherent than he feels. “I—”

Shiro slaps his ass again to shut him up, and Keith isn’t an idiot who’s going to complain about that. Shiro keeps going, relentless, fingers pushing deeper but never enough, and his other hand cracks down on Keith whenever he feels like there’s too much sass coming out of his mouth or like the wordless sounds falling from his lips aren’t appropriately reverent. Keith takes it like he was born for it, and maybe he was, writhing like a wild thing underneath Shiro’s hands and mouth, as if he’s going to die if this ever stops.

God, they need to get to the next part or Keith is going to come and it’s going to be all over.

He tells Shiro that, and all it gets him is a low laugh, and it feels like Shiro’s fingers start pushing into him harder, faster, sloppy wet with too much lube and intoxicating like liquor. Shiro holds him open so he can press his tongue straight to Keith’s rim, licking around his fingers like this is something people just _do_ , all the time, and not something that is slowly melting Keith’s brain into a disgusting puddle of desire and need.

“Fuck you,” Keith mumbles—it only seems appropriate that it’s the last thing he says before he comes with a cry, hips caught between rutting down into the sheets and pushing back onto Shiro’s fingers and tongue.

Dazed, he lets Shiro pull his fingers out and nudge Keith over on his back out of the wet spot, turning him sideways so his legs aren't hanging off the side of the bed. He kisses up Keith’s chest and lands at his mouth, lips meeting again and again in light, fluttery pecks that make Keith’s face turn red from embarrassment—too sweet for him, but he’s powerless to resist Shiro’s fingers entwining with his own as Shiro leans their foreheads together.

“That was hot,” Shiro breathes, skimming one hand down Keith’s side. He smirks. “And now we're even.”

Keith smacks his lips a little to get moisture back in his mouth, eyes crossing in his attempt to bring Shiro’s face back into focus. “Don’t you dare start thinking we’re done here,” he says.

Shiro laughs—giggles, really—and says, “I would never. But, fuck, seeing you come on my fingers was just—damn. You’re really something.”

Something hot flares in Keith’s chest. He kisses Shiro to keep him from saying things to make Keith feel like this, pulls him in with a hand on the back of his head and tries to convey with his tongue exactly how he wants Shiro to fuck him, filthy and hard like nothing either of them have ever had. Shiro sinks into it immediately, diving in with a renewed enthusiasm, and his hips grind against Keith’s, hard cock pressing against Keith’s skin through the denim of his jeans and reminding them both of their real purpose here.

“Is this really all you got?” Keith rasps, reaching between their bodies to grope Shiro, shameless from his orgasm.

Shiro grins, doesn't rise to the bait this time. “You talk a big game,” he says instead, grabbing Keith's wrists and pinning them above his head. Keith wonders if it's possible to physically _feel_ the dilation of your pupils.

He bites at Keith's jaw, just below the swell of his bottom lip, and trails his mouth across from there, making Keith's breath go erratic as his cock does its best to wake back up and get in the game.

“Still wanna find out if I can make you cry?” Shiro whispers in his ear.

Keith bites back a whimper.

Shiro stands and he looks unfairly hot from this angle, staring down at Keith with a heavy-lidded, too-pleased gaze. Keith wants to worship him, all the way from his huge shoulders to his thick thighs—the picture only gets more devastating as Shiro reaches his hands up above his head in a long stretch, and Keith's eyes hungrily catalogue every shifting muscle and inch of skin. The hands drop, and Shiro pushes his bangs back, up off his forehead, highlighting the curve of his cheekbone and the line of his jaw. This is the view Keith has been waiting for since Shiro got down on his knees.

Shiro’s hands fall farther, to his belt, and Keith pushes himself up on his elbows to watch. There's just something about watching a man prying apart his own belt buckle, cocky and demanding, and Keith loves it.

The belt drops to the side, Shiro bends gracefully to step out of his pants, and when he comes back up fully naked, it's a tragedy that there isn't a camera on this.

Keith will say it again: _devastating_.

“You’re gonna stay there?” Shiro asks. He sounds far too smug, clearly knows exactly what he’s doing. Keith scowls and his face heats; he refuses to meet Shiro’s eyes as he pushes himself to his feet. “C’mere.”

Shiro’s offered hand is a magnet.

Almost before Keith can comprehend what's happening, Shiro picks him up under his thighs and stumbles his way over to the wall. Keith's back hits it with an audible thud, but their mouths are already attached and Keith couldn't give a shit about bruises on his back right now if he tried. He gets one hand on Shiro’s shoulder and the other one just above his collarbone, squeezing hard muscle and getting lightheaded from the kiss like a middle schooler.

Bracing Keith against the wall with his hips, Shiro grabs Keith’s hands and wrenches them away from his body, pushing them into place above their heads. Keith’s breath catches in his throat and falls out in a groan.

“Keep them there,” Shiro growls, and Keith doesn’t consider disobeying for even a second, even as Shiro’s hand lets go.

It’s sheer strength that allows Shiro to push his cock inside of Keith like this, just one tentative nudge at his entrance before he slides home, hot and hard, forcing the tension out of Keith’s body in one smooth stroke. Keith’s mouth drops open and his hands fall to rest on top of his head. He shakes, soundless, as Shiro puts his hands on Keith’s hips and ass and fucks into him.

Keith clings with his legs around Shiro’s waist, holding on for dear life, and he doesn’t notice his eyes are closed until Shiro smooths his hair back from them.

“That shut you up quick,” Shiro whispers, his cock dragging at a pace that Keith can only describe as torturously slow.

Keith moans.

“Fuck,” Shiro says, driving in fast. Keith wants to touch so badly, but he likes the hungry flicker of Shiro's eyes between his hands and face.

“Next time,” Keith swears, and he has to repeat himself because he’s out of breath. “Next time, I’m—I’m fucking you, see how fast you— _mph—”_

Shiro’s fingers invade his mouth, pressing deep and rough in time with his hips. Despite himself, Keith’s eyes slide shut on a throaty sigh. “There we go,” Shiro says, mouth half-smashed against Keith’s cheek, curving up into a wicked grin. “You think you can—can get what you want by being mouthy, but . . . .” He scrapes his teeth on Keith’s jaw, grinds his hips in tight, presses his fingers deep inside until Keith wants to choke on them. “But I know what you want, baby. You don’t need to show off for me.”

This is—this is flaying Keith open in a way sex isn’t supposed to make him feel. His body is invaded, owned, pried apart, and delved into, taken at both ends and still wanting more. Keith lets loose some sort of awful, high-pitched noise that he’s never heard come out of his mouth before as Shiro cleaves him into pieces.

“Last time you tried so hard to be cool,” Shiro says. “Pretending like you weren’t gonna give me your number. I know better now.”

 _What do you know?_ Keith thinks, suddenly mutinous. _You don’t know anything._ He wants to spit out the words right into Shiro’s face, but even as his arms lose their strength and drop from above his head to Shiro’s shoulders, short nails finding purchase on Shiro’s skin, he can’t regain control over his vocal cords. Shiro nuzzles under his chin, and shouldn’t he be getting tired at some point? Isn’t he straining by now, to keep Keith held up and pinned against this wall, arms shaking and legs burning?

Maybe he is. Keith’s vision is so blurry when he actually manages to get his eyes open, and the livewire under his skin won’t allow him to feel the minute shifts of Shiro’s body, too focused on the parts taking him to pieces.

He can’t even tell if this is better than the first time. It must be.

The urge to come is striking and sudden, something that Keith actually _forgot_ about, which just might be the most absurd thing that’s ever happened to him. This is sex, they’re having real, hard, wall-collapsing sex, and Keith has never dreaded an orgasm like he does right then, terrified that it will signal the end of the most transcendental and heart-pounding experience he’s ever had.

Shiro’s head pulls back enough to lean their foreheads together, suddenly intimate as his hips slow to a torturous grind, too certain of what his body is doing as he forces Keith to meet his gaze. It isn’t possible, what he’s done to Keith.

Keith’s eyes are burning.

“Is this what you wanted?” Shiro asks, his voice more startling than a lightning strike. “Fucking—tears in your eyes, baby, god, you’re so pretty.”

It’s too much; Keith can’t contain himself or barricade his body against the perfect drag inside him, nudging deep to places so intimate that Keith swears he can feel it in his throat. He comes with fingers digging bruises into Shiro’s back, arms and legs clinging so hard that Shiro has to fight his grip in order to fuck him through it. Hot tears drip down his face and he stares at the ceiling above Shiro’s head, unseeing. It’s almost cruel how good Shiro makes him feel.

“Beautiful,” Shiro whispers, too soft for Keith to know how to handle. He pulls Shiro into a graceless kiss and loosens his legs to try to get him to keep moving, but Shiro—he doesn’t. He falls into the kiss with everything he has, a hand on his dick intensifying the aftershocks still ripping through Keith even as he longs for the sweet, wet slide of Shiro’s cock inside him. The rush of blood in his head is exhilarating.

Shiro finally starts to move again—it lights Keith up from the inside—and for a moment, all they are is a collision of lips and the luscious sensation of friction as fireworks fizzle out behind Keith’s eyelids.

With the softest moan, Shiro comes, eyes shuttered tightly while Keith watches with rapt attention. His wet cheek becomes the resting place of Shiro’s forehead.

One by one, Keith’s legs drop to the floor. Standing feels like trying to balance on pillars of jello, so he slumps against the wall and lets Shiro lean on him in turn while they catch their breath.

The kiss is what undoes Keith.

So slowly that Keith almost doesn’t register it happening, Shiro feathers kisses over the tear tracks on his face. They send Keith’s heart racing, suddenly, jolted out of its sluggish, post-sex rhythm into something awkward and unsure—this is not Keith’s first hookup, not by far, but he’s never known anyone to kiss his face after the deed is done, or anyone who stayed next to him long enough to leave open the possibility. Keith is standing on his own two feet, now, but Shiro hasn’t moved away—their bodies pressed together in one long line is intimate but not hot. This isn’t a closeness meant for arousal; this is something that Keith doesn’t know how to deal with.

“I should go,” he blurts out. The afterglow dies.

Shiro pauses, and then pulls back enough to blink once. “Okay,” he says, hesitant. “You don’t have to—”

“It’s fine,” Keith lies. He’s so not fine right now. “I have an early study session, anyway.”

“Oh. That’s very studious of you for a Saturday morning.”

Keith shrugs a shoulder and glances away. Has Shiro always made this much eye contact or is this something new designed specifically to torture a post-cotial Keith?

“Gotta keep those grades up if they’re gonna let me fly a plane someday.”

“Right.” Shiro studies him, and when he leans back in for a kiss, Keith indulges him. Freaking out and uncertainty is one thing, but Keith doesn’t want to be a total asshole—he lets Shiro pry his mouth open gently in an exploratory kiss that somehow says more than the entire last twenty minutes combined.

They break apart; Keith finds his eyes closed without his permission.

“Can I call you?” Shiro asks.

Shiro’s breath ghosts over his lips, and Keith nods, hypnotized. He catches himself rubbing the base of Shiro’s neck with one thumb, a tender gesture that just about destroys him as he snatches his hand away. The problem is, Shiro is huge, and it leaves very few other places for Keith to put his hands. A bicep isn’t much better, not when it feels like that.

Finally, Shiro lets him go, and Keith pushes off the wall. He needs to gather his clothes, put them on, and then figure out how the hell he’s going to get back to the dorms this late. Hopefully, it’s earlier than he thinks it is and he can still make the bus.

Keith takes just one step and immediately feels their mistake as wetness drips down the back of one leg.

“Oh god,” he whispers. No condom—which isn’t really a problem, considering they definitely chatted about that a few days ago, but no condom plus a bus ride is, well, less than ideal. “Uh, bathroom,” he says, face flushed and willing Shiro not to ask any questions. The look in his eyes says he knows exactly what Keith is alluding to—Keith doesn’t think he imagines the flash of heat there, either—but he escorts him to the bathroom two doors down the hall anyway.

What a gentleman.

Keith cleans himself up as best as he can, and walks back into Shiro’s room and immediately has to file the sight away for later thought: Shiro sitting on the edge of the bed, wearing just his underwear and the deep purple shirt from earlier, unbuttoned and sleeves rolled up. His abs are on display more than ever, and Keith wants to drag his tongue and fingers all over that chest.

Some sort of gargled noise comes out of his mouth, but Keith recovers. He recovers so fast that Shiro doesn't even have time to look up from his phone to see what Keith is freaking out about.

It's fine. Shiro is a sweet guy, so of course he's nice in bed and after sex—he proved that last time, too, though a significant part of Keith's post-sex memory is still clouded by vodka. Shiro's texts flip effortlessly between filthy and flirty, showing him to be nothing more than a genuinely nice guy who wants to get laid just as much as Keith does.

Keith is just . . . high off sex, and his brain is doing stupid things.

He dresses and pats down his pockets to make sure everything is in place—wallet, phone, school ID, and keys should be in his jacket pocket.

“You sure you wanna go?” Shiro asks, tone careful. “I don’t mind an early wake up call.”

With a shrug, Keith says, “I’ll sleep better in my own bed, I think.” Bravely, he meets Shiro’s eyes. “You’re a little distracting.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Shiro says, his face exploding into a roguish grin.

Even though the news that Keith has to go is clearly not what he wanted to hear, Shiro walks Keith to the door and gets his jacket out of the closet for him. He hands it off delicately, watches Keith put it on, and, just as Keith is about to say something appropriately sexy and witty to close the night and make it clear that he’s not freaking out at all, Shiro ducks in close and presses the softest kiss to Keith’s lips, close-mouthed and far too tender for the hot thing inside Keith’s chest and the fact that Keith just had to limp down the stairs like some kind of overtaxed pornstar.

“So,” Shiro says, once he’s turned all of Keith into mush but before Keith is able to open his eyes. He blinks them open just in time for a tiny smile to quirk the edges of Shiro’s mouth. “I know it wasn’t the most conventional, but. Good first date?”

First date.

Oh, god, fuck, _first date_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> still more to come....
> 
>  
> 
> [tumblr](http://disloyalpunk.tumblr.com)

**Author's Note:**

> wow can you believe they're already in love
> 
> tune in again soon for part 2 in which keith gets it and also accidentally locks it down
> 
>  
> 
> [tumblr](http://disloyalpunk.tumblr.com)


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